


Ink Marked

by Robin_Fai



Series: This Tangled Briar [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is feeding Morse, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, a little fluff, which sums up this fandom I think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Morse is still recovering after his return to Oxford following an abusive relationship.He wants a new start, but his past is always there, threatening to ruin whatever new happiness he might find.Its a good thing he has a good friend now to catch him when he falls.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Series: This Tangled Briar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665553
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Ink Marked

**Author's Note:**

> Hands up if you're in self-isolation with me! Such fun! Perfect time for a rewatch if it weren't for looking after a toddler all day. So I was working on the longish magical realism fic I've been writing but got stuck, so I allowed myself the freedom to write the next installment in this little AU to cheer myself up. I hope you enjoy this, and that you're all keeping safe out there.

The days since he had fled the home he had made with Joseph had changed Morse. He lived with the pain and fear it had brought upon him through his every waking moment, and many of his sleeping ones too. 

He was beaten, broken, but unwilling to let that be an end to it. The shame and guilt he felt was like an infection raging through his veins. He wanted to fight it, but it was so ingrained in him that he didn’t know how. 

He imagined the grief tracing the paths of his veins, leaving a black taint as the charred net closed over his whole frame.

When he had found himself back in hospital, his scarred remains no longer a secret to those he had wanted to come back to, he had thought that he wanted to run again. He’d had no idea whether he was still running from Joseph, or whether he was now running from the poison that had now spread to what was left of his Oxford life. Either way, he had nowhere to go, and for a short while he had felt defeated.

But then Peter had come round and spread all their secrets before him, laid them bare, without a hint of pity, and everything had changed. He had chased the shadows from the room, and left him with food, hope, and solidarity.

Peter came around again the next day as he had promised. He brought a new meal to replace the empty dish that Morse had dutifully washed up. Morse had it set that one by the front door, ready, but somehow hadn’t really expected it’s owner to come. 

His resolution to start over again, to walk away from what he had come through, was easier to make than to enact. The constant narrative in the back of his mind that told him he was nothing, that no one cared, that he was broken, wrong, a failure, had taken on Joseph’s voice now rather than his father’s. It was there every time he closed his eyes. _No better than you should be… Damaged goods… No one will ever you want you..._

Yet, when he opened the door to the insistent knocking of his new friend, the words retreated for a while. Something as simple as a meal felt more like a missing piece of a puzzle he had been working on for years. Peter stayed for a while, and for that brief window of time he could see clearly.

After that, he found himself wanting to prove to Peter that he _could_ do this, that he could come through it all unscathed. He bought bowls, plates, mugs, a kettle. He filled his house with the small, everyday, necessities. He unpacked his meagre possessions and tried to drive the ghosts from the corners of the room and his mind. He wanted to rebuild his life, but his attempts felt like an act.

For several weeks he worked in Records, and all was well. He did his penance behind the desk. It was like being in prison again, but this time for something that he _did_ do. He didn’t notice his slip into blaming himself again. He did make those choices after all he told himself. He could have left. Should have left. Could have done _something._

The loneliness began to eat away at him. He caught himself thinking about Joseph in the endless stretches of time between visitors to his little cell. He watched the dust settling, heavy, for all that it was drifting in the light of the afternoon sun. He wondered what Joseph was doing now, if he thought of him at all, what he had thought when he found him gone.

Sometimes, when it had been too long since he last saw anyone, his hand would drift aimlessly until it rested on the telephone. It scared him that he came so close to calling the man that had hurt him so much. And yet… yet they had loved each other hadn’t they?

Peter found him there one day, staring out of the window, lost to a past his heart was re-writing. 

A sigh cut through his daydream.

“You’ve not been eating, have you?” Peter asked, tone clearly exasperated.

“What?”

“What are you doing this evening?”

“I-”

“No. Forget making up some half-arsed lie. You still owe me a pint. Meet me down the Flag at seven?”

He wanted to refuse, tried to even, but Peter won out. 

The evening was a beacon of hope in an otherwise barren existence. He hadn’t realised how low he had got again until then. The darkness had been winning. He had made a promise to himself to try and beat it, and he renewed it then and there. 

The next evening Peter brought him another casserole. 

“You owe me another pint. Decent ingredients don’t come cheap you know!” Peter said, as he practically barged into the flat.

“I never asked you to cook for me.” He bristled automatically at the barb, even though he could hear it was good natured.

Peter threw him a glance and huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, well, you going to tell me you don’t need it?”

He couldn’t argue with that. The mirror that he’d been trying to avoid again was telling him exactly how much weight he had lost, and how little he could afford to lose now. For all that they had fought, Joseph had always cooked dinner for him. 

His face warmed at the memory of the first meal they had shared. Things had been pretty wonderful then. Their hands had lingered as they touched when they both reached for the wine bottle. Those same hands had later wound themselves through his hair, pulling him close, and he had loved feeling so claimed, so possessed, so _wanted._

Peter had tried to make small talk, but he’d found himself unable to play along, so he’d left not long after. This was his life now. Handouts and pity. It was a poor echo of what he’d once had.

He returned that particular dish to the CID offices. It wasn’t fair for Peter to have to keep coming over because he couldn’t take care of himself. Thursday came out of his office as he was setting the dish down at Peter’s vacant desk. 

The Inspector had been down to Records most days since the incident at the allotments, but Morse had managed to dodge his endless offers of the pub or dinner. He still felt awkward about the whole not drinking alcohol thing. That day Thursday looked him up and down and simply announced that he was coming round for tea that evening, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

They fell into an odd kind of routine from there. A couple of times a week Thursday would drag him to the pub after work, or home for dinner with the family. Win fussed over him, complaining that he had lost far too much weight, and really shouldn’t be holed up alone in his flat. He smiled at her mothering. He was defenceless against such ruthless kindness.

The other working days saw him either at the pub with Peter, or Peter bringing him dinner. Peter never asked about Morse’s switch back to lemonade. It was an odd friendship, but it brought him a lot of comfort, so he tried his hardest not to over-analyse it. 

They bickered amicably over their drinks, or talked about the latest cases. They never spoke about their respective ghosts, but he knew that he could if he chose to.

Whenever Peter came by his flat he could see him taking in whatever new essential he had bought since the last visit. An iron, a complete set of kitchen utensils, all were met with a quiet, approving, smile.

After a while, once his chest felt more healed, he braved a return to his choir. It was wonderful to sing again. For a few hours he was transported to another time and place, where he was whole again. 

The trouble was that it reminded him of the silence in his flat. He had decided against a radio in the end. He wanted to save up for a record player. 

His stitches came out under the judgemental glare of a doctor after several weeks. They had taken longer to heal than expected and had to be re-done a couple of times. The nurse assisting subjected him to a litany of pitying glances and sighs. It was awful. He felt like the shame as their eyes raked over his scarred skin might eat him up. 

He was pronounced fit for active duty again a few days later by a disinterested police surgeon who thankfully never asked him to remove his vest. 

He was still hiding away some secrets on his skin. 

Only the doctors and Joseph knew about the scar that wound its way up his back. It was the second worst that decorated his body. 

Sometimes he would twist to try and see it in the mirror, and it would curl around with him, like a briary stem wound about his backbone. He imagined it had barbs, digging deep into his spine. Yet, somehow, like a briar rose, this particular scar had a rough, wild, beauty about it. The image stuck with him. It worked its way into his thoughts until he found himself lying awake at night, one hand laid flat against the ridges of his bones, as though he could contain the growth.

He didn’t know why he did what he did next. It hurt. But the burn was better than those thorns. He felt like he had razed the cut without erasing its legacy. 

It was a stupid act. Going back to pain was probably the most foolish thing he had done for a long time. A fear settled in him about what people would say if they knew. 

Peter came around that evening as he so often did now. He had thought he would have a couple of days at least to recover as it was the weekend, but Peter had broken their pattern and come over on a Saturday. Morse tried to hide his pain, but he couldn’t quite move without flinching from the sting. 

“What’s wrong with your back?” There was a suspicion and a concern to the question that he didn’t want to face up to.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The old lie. He fell back on it so easily.

“You’re a terrible liar, Morse.” 

“What are you doing here on a Saturday?” He couldn’t help trying to antagonise Peter. It was his only line of defence.

“Well, I’ve noticed this pattern. You’re left alone for a couple of days and you forget to do the normal sorts of things that the rest of us don’t have to think about. You know, like eating, or sleeping.”

Peter set the latest dish down on the table and began getting out plates and cutlery. It took longer than it should for Morse to notice that he had laid two places.

“You’re staying?”

“Seems kind of ridiculous to be cooking for two, yet eating separately.” Peter said with a shrug as he dished up.

“So what you’re saying is I get subjected to your company for an extra evening because you’re lonely.” He didn’t know why he was still trying to pick a fight. Maybe because his back felt like it was on fire. Maybe because he was scared to get used to having company again.

Peter didn’t rise to the bait.

“Stop projecting your own neediness onto me and eat while its still hot.”

He sat as carefully as he could, but still he winced at the bite of pain. He sat in the kitchen chair, rigid, holding his back as far from the solid wood of the chair as he could without it being obvious. Peter sighed but didn’t ask.

“You not playing any of that wailing music of yours?” Peter asked, looking around as he ate.

Morse ducked his head to hide the shame that rose so readily at that memory. The sound of the records shattering against the wall over his head. The words that were flung after them. _‘You care more about this trash than me!’_ He dug his fingernails into his palms around his knife and fork and tried think clearly.

“My records got… damaged.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

They talked about work instead. Even though he was back in CID now, Morse still felt like an interloper. He had passed his sentence in Records and been let out, but he wasn’t really free of what he had been punishing himself for. So, even though his evenings were surrounded by Peter, the Thursdays, and his choir, he had been holding himself back. Somehow, here in his kitchen, he felt more free to discuss the things he had noticed on their cases.

As he was leaving, Peter turned back and asked, “You’re not seeing him again are you?”

“What?” The question was like a lighting bolt. “No! Of course not.” (He distantly registered that Peter had said ‘him’. So he had heard his slip that time. And presumably was fine with it. He didn’t know what that meant, or what he felt about it.)

“You can lie all you like, but I can tell you’re in pain again. Your back. And you’ve been acting weird at work.” Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. It was a tell that Morse was learning meant that he was uncomfortable, or unhappy about something. 

“Look, Peter, I _am_ fine. Honestly. I… I can’t explain about my back, but I promise you, I’m not seeing him. I’ve not seen him since that day.”

Peter gave him a genuine smile. “Alright. Well, you know my offer still stands, right? Any time you want to talk about it, I’m here.” He left then, and the silence rolled back over Morse’s flat. He wished Peter hadn’t mentioned his records.

Morse slept fitfully that night. Peter had been right that he wasn’t sleeping at the weekends. He had come to dread those two days since he had started spending so much time around other people in the week. Still, even his disturbed sleep that night was more than he usually managed on a Saturday. Really, it was only his back that kept waking him. 

The next day Peter arrived at his door again. This time he bore a large box, and an embarrassed expression.

“Don’t ask me why, but I couldn’t have you moping about in this dingy place without some company.” Peter said as he put the box down on his table. 

“You know I’m not a dog person, right?” Morse poked. He didn’t really think Peter had brought him a puppy, but there was no doubting that whatever was in a box that big wasn’t dinner.

“Oh, ha ha. You’re hilarious as ever.” Peter was even more sarcastic than usual. He really was embarrassed then.

Peter opened the box and reached in to retrieve a slightly battered record player, followed by a few rather mainstream opera records. Morse’s heart stuttered in his chest. He reached a faltering hand out.

“Is...”

“I bought it for you.” Peter was examining the floor. “Its nothing fancy. Just what I could get down the market. And I’ve got no idea about the records, so I hope they’re not too awful. Well, more awful than that stuff usually is anyway.”

Morse ran a shaking hand over the record player. Yes, it was battered, but it was a good make, and all the scratches and bumps looked superficial. Everything vital for a good sound was in tact as far as he could see.

“Why?” He asked, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. 

Peter shuffled his feet and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It didn’t seem right, you not having your music.”

He flipped through the records. They were pretty standard fare, as he had thought, but then he saw the cover of the last. Rosalind Calloway. It was the same pressing as his own had been. He hadn’t played it again after all that had happened, but he had held on to it. It had been the voice that had saved his life all those years before, and so, despite what she had done, he had wanted to keep it as a reminder that hope could be found even in the darkest of times. 

He didn’t know he was crying until he felt Peter’s hand against his cheek.

“Morse? Shit. Sorry, I… I just thought...” Peter’s face was full of regret.

“No. You’ve got nothing to apologise for. And I’ve got everything to thank you for. No one has ever… This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, Peter. Really. Thank you.” He reached out and pulled his friend into a hug.

They pulled apart from the embrace after a few moments, each red faced and awkward. Peter made his excuses and left.

Morse worked his way through the records. It didn’t matter that they weren’t particularly good productions, they had been given to him with care, and they filled a space in his soul that had been achingly empty for so long now. 

After the first record was finished, he retrieved the practically untouched bottle of whiskey that he had bought in defiance of Joseph’s hatred of his drinking and began to work his way through it. It was strong, especially since he hadn’t drunk anything alcoholic in months, and went straight to his head.

By the time he reached the Calloway record Morse was thoroughly drunk. He didn’t make it more than halfway through the disc before he was making an ill advised phone-call. He regretted it as soon as he had replaced the receiver. The old fear kicked in, anxiety overwhelming him. He took the needle off the record and curled up in an armchair, trying to banish the darkness that pressed on his brain.

He was awoken some time later by a loud knocking at the door, and an equally loud drumming in his chest. The distance from his armchair to the front door stretched out immeasurably before him. Perhaps he could just ignore it. Maybe he would go away if he pretended not to be in. He should never have called him.

The door opened and Peter stepped into his dimly lit flat.

“Christ, Morse. Why isn’t your door locked? Do you want to be robbed? Not that there’s much to steal here.”

Morse slumped back into the chair, before sitting back up again abruptly with a hiss of pain at the burn across his back.

“Peter, what are you doing here? Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“Morse. You called me. You asked me to come. Are you drunk? You sounded pretty drunk on the phone.” Peter closed the front door behind him and crossed the room as he spoke. When he reached the chair he reached out and took Morse’s chin, tilting it up so they were in eye contact. He let out a slow breath at whatever he saw there, then let his hand drop. “Yeah, you’re pretty plastered aren’t you.”

“I called you?” Morse’s question made it sound like he didn’t remember calling. He did remember. The thing was, he had gotten rather confused after and thought he had called Joseph. The relief at finding he had called his friend instead made him laugh, but the laugh became a sob, and the sob became a food of tears he didn’t know how to stop. 

Before he knew what was happening, Peter had taken his hand and pulled him up into his arms. They had hugged earlier, but this was something else. He held onto Peter as though he were his only lifeline as he was drowning. 

He hadn’t known how numb he had been until then. He knew then that for all his efforts at moving on, it had all been the act he had feared it was, because he hadn’t really, truly, faced up to what had happened to him. 

They drifted together that way for some time, before Morse finally managed to surface. They moved to the kitchen table and over tea he finally managed to put some of what had happened into words. They were broken, disjointed, little fragments, but each bit he said was like removing a splinter from under his skin. 

Peter wound his fingers through Morse’s, and Morse didn’t question why, or what it meant, he just let that simple touch anchor him to the safety of the other man’s presence.

They talked through the darkness of the night until fatigue finally caught them up.

“Stay. Please. Would you stay?” He found himself asking Peter.

“Of course.”

He only had one bed, so they each took a side, and laid themselves down, fully clothed. Without thinking, Morse found Peter’s hand and took it back in his own. Sleep claimed them quickly, and they both slept soundly, but in the morning Morse awoke to find his body curled into a ball against the warm arc of Peter’s sleeping form. Peter’s arm was wrapped over his side and up his chest, following the line of his scar, and his face was pressed to his shoulder. 

If he could have stayed in that one, perfect, moment forever he would have. Instead, he slipped out from the safety of Peter’s hold and quickly got ready for work. Peter emerged a short while later, his expression worried until he saw Morse.

They drank tea, ate toast, and didn’t talk about what had happened.

That evening, after a long and distressingly awkward day at work, Peter once again turned up on Morse’s doorstep.

“Can we talk?” Peter ran a hand over his immaculate hair. 

Morse realised that he had been noticing that gesture more and more recently. He realised also that he had been wanting to run his own hands through that hair too. He wanted to mess up that perfectly manicured facade, tear at his shirt, claw at his skin, kiss those fine lips until Peter was thoroughly dishevelled and begging for more. His face grew red at the thought. 

_Fuck. When had that happened? When had he fallen for Peter Jakes?_

He didn’t trust his voice just then, so he simply stepped back and let the man in. He cleared his throat.

“About last night… I’m sorry I called you like that. I-”

“Please don’t apologise, Morse. I told you that you could talk to me anytime you needed and I meant it.”

“So what did you want to talk about?”

“What… what are we exactly? I mean, what am I to you? What we… What I...” Peter let out a frustrated sigh and looked at his feet. “Last night - that was more than what normal friends would do. I know this is the worst timing and… and so much more than that, but I need to know. I need to know where we stand?”

Morse felt himself going red. Peter was right, it was terrible timing, but it had happened all the same. 

“I have to be honest with you Peter, I owe you that at least.” He started. Peter was still looking anywhere but at him. He crossed the space between them and reached out a tentative hand to Peter’s shoulder. Finally the other man looked up and met his gaze. There was so much fear there. Morse knew that he was no doubt damning them with his next words, but he had to say them anyway. “I don’t know how it happened, Peter, but I… I like you. I’m not going to declare anything crazy because I only just realised how I feel, but I really do like you. And as you said, its terrible timing, and I’m… I’m really messed up right now. So I’m sorry, and… and I hope this won’t ruin what we have – our friendship? - because I value that more than anything.”

“You think having feelings for me would ruin our friendship?” Peter asked, incredulous. “No- don’t answer that- because I think I have some idea now of exactly how little you think of yourself. No. It would never ruin anything. What I was asking was more about me. I… I have liked you for such a long, long, time now. I don’t know when it started, or why, but that doesn’t matter. I was worried because of how I acted yesterday. Coming on to you like that after what you went through… it was a terrible thing to do. So if anyone needs to apologise, its me, Morse, not you.”

Morse was stunned. There was no doubting the sincerity of the man. Peter liked him? He thought back over what he could remember of the previous night. It did make some more sense in that context. 

“You don’t care what I did? What happened?” Surely that was it though. Even if Peter liked him, how could he want him? 

“What do you mean?” Peter frowned, clearly not following Morse’s train of thought.

“Joseph. That must change things for you. You’ve seen what came of the last time I was seeing someone.” 

“That wasn’t your fault, Morse. You didn’t do those things to yourself. And of course I care what happened to you, I’d like to tear that bloody man to pieces for how he hurt you, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you and it never will.”

“Oh.” Morse wondered if he had ever had such a simultaneously wonderful and painful declaration made to him. He doubted it, and either way ‘oh’ was not the best way to respond, but it was all he could find the breath to say at that moment in time.

Peter took a deep breath, then swore again. “Fucking, Joseph. Did you have to tell me the bastard’s name? If he ever shows his face around here I’ll...” Peter sighed, the threat failing to materialise. He didn’t have that kind of violence in him, and Morse was glad of it. 

Peter was running that hand over his hair again. Did he have to do that? It was very distracting in the midst of such a fraught and emotional conversation.

“What is your obsession with making sure your hair is so neat?” The words were out of his mouth before he could really think about them.

“My… hair? Morse, we’re having this big soul searching chat, and now you’re on about my hair?!” Peter looked more baffled than he had ever seen him.

“Well, it isn’t my fault. You won’t leave it alone.” 

“I like looking presentable, unlike some people.” Peter threw back, accusing.

“Its been a long time since I was scruffy, and you know it.” 

“Do you own a suit that fits?” Peter threw his hands up.

“Whose fault is that? It fitted until you insisted on feeding me all the time.” This familiar bickering was so comfortable. There was none of the fear he had felt when he had argued with Joseph. 

“Oh, so I should stop bringing you food then?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. You’re not a bad cook.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“You wouldn’t leave your hair alone. And anyway, _your_ suits are ridiculous. What police officer owns such well-tailored outfits.”

“And your point is?”

“That every time you smooth it over I’d rather I was messing your hair up, and taking that stupidly perfect suit off.” Morse felt himself blushing again. He wasn’t sure why these things kept coming out of his mouth. His mouth had often run away with him when it came to cases, work, opinions, that sort of thing, but he usually managed to be more tight lipped when it came to his personal life.

“Morse, you’re killing me right now. Are we fighting or flirting?” Peter’s expression was pure exasperation.

“Probably both.” 

Peter shook his head and then stared up at a stain on the ceiling. “Right, well, in that case you had better make good on some of those threats someday or I’m going to die thoroughly frustrated.”

“Why someday? Why not now?” There it went again. It was like he had no filter between brain and mouth.

Peter turned his head sharply from the ceiling back to Morse. “Now?!” 

“Now.”

They stood there for a long moment, Morse’s hand still resting on Peter’s shoulder, their bodies held both together and apart by the length of his arm. Finally Peter sighed and closed his eyes against Morse’s blue-eyed stare.

“Morse, you just got out of… of an abusive relationship. Now I really do care for you, and damnit I really want to be with you, but this is really bad timing. You need time to heal. Properly heal-”

Morse pulled away, stepping back, and turning away, before Peter could finish letting him down. He didn’t want to hear it. 

“Fine. It’s fine. I understand.”

“No! No I don’t think you do.” Peter spoke behind him. “I want to be with you Morse. I’m just saying that we need to give it time. Please, look at me.”

He thought about refusing. He thought about walking away. But he also wanted to hear what Peter had to say at least. He turned back around. Peter closed the space between them and hesitantly took his hand.

“What exactly are you saying, Peter?” He couldn’t let hope get the better of him. He needed to know where they stood with each other.

“That we could take things slowly. That we don’t rush into anything. Just one step at a time. But only if you want to, of course.”

His heart was racing again. Did he want to? For all his bold propositions and flirting, there was a sort of terror that filled him at the idea of dating someone again. If it really was all his fault how things had gone before, then what would stop that from happening again? Did he really want to do that to Peter?

And yet… Could he really imagine Peter hurting someone? Perhaps when they first knew one another he might have thought it possible. He knew him so much better these days. He knew how Peter had been hurt, knew about his secret vulnerability, about his quiet resilience. Peter was watchful, measured, diligent. He put on a front of suave self-confidence to deflect people from looking deeper. He smoked with an air of informality and assurance as a literal smoke-screen to hide how, sometimes, just sometimes, his hands shook. 

Peter was as easy to misunderstand as Morse was himself. Each showing the world a face that was only a half-truth.

Morse took a deep breath and really thought about all that Peter had said. If they did what Peter suggested and took things slow, then maybe, if they were lucky, what harm could come from that?

“Then how do we start? Where do we go from here?” He asked.

Peter smiled at him, and stepped a little closer.

“This maybe?” And then Peter’s lips were on his. 

It started as a gentle kiss, just a press of the lips, but then rapidly deepened into something else. For all their talk of taking things slow, he couldn’t help wanting more. Morse pressed his body up against Peter’s, and ran his free hand through that stupidly immaculate hair. Peter moaned against Morse’s lips and wrapped his arm around his waist to pull him even closer. A jolt of pain shot through him, and he pulled back with a curse.

“Morse?” Peter stayed close, but stepped away from their embrace, uncertain. 

“I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.” Morse tried to plaster a reassuring smile on his face, but it was strained by the ache across his spine. One hand drifted unconsciously to rub at it.

“You’re not. It was because I touched your back wasn’t it? What happened?” Peter looked worried again. 

“Its nothing.” He wished Peter could let it drop. Though if they did ever go further… One day he would have to own up.

“Why won’t you tell me?” 

“Because its ridiculous. I don’t know why…” Morse sighed and looked at the floor, ashamed. “I don’t know why I did it. If you knew… you’d laugh at me.”

“You’re hurt. Why would I ever laugh at that.” There was nothing but sincerity in Peter’s voice. Maybe it was better to get this over with sooner rather than later.

“Fine. You really want to know?” He said, through gritted teeth. Peter nodded. 

Morse pulled off his jumper, and began to unbutton his shirt. He heard Peter begin to object and held up his hand to stop him. This was very far from a flirtatious move. Peter fell silent. Morse couldn’t bear to look at him. 

In order to show him his back he had to take off his shirt, which meant revealing every mark that Joseph had laid upon his body. Maybe that was for the best too. Peter had seen his chest that day in the cold and the mud of the allotments, but he hadn’t seen the full extent of it all. Maybe it was best that he knew, that he really saw him, so he could close the door on ‘them’ before they got too deep.

He shrugged off the shirt and turned around. His back laid bare for Peter’s judgement.

“You… got a tattoo?” Peter asked, incredulous. “I never thought of you… well, as the tattoo type.”

Morse tried to remember how to breathe, and how to talk. “Its… I wanted to… to cover-”

“-the scar.” Peter finished for him. So he could see it, and it didn’t seem to upset him. Peter’s next words caught him utterly by surprise. “I think its beautiful.” Morse looked over his shoulder. Peter smiled at him. “Can I?” Peter raised a shy hand towards the ink marked section of Morse’s back. Morse gave his a half-smile of acceptance, then watched as Peter gently traced the lines on his back.

“Its a briar rose.” He said to fill the silence as Peter’s fingers lightly drifted along his spine.

“All thorns, and wild beauty. Very fitting for someone as prickly as you.” Peter said with a smirk. 

And just like that, with one light-hearted comment, the terror he had been feeling slipped away. Maybe with someone like Peter it would be alright. And perhaps that was okay. Perhaps a ‘maybe’ was better way to start than blindly believing in a lie. Maybe ‘they’ would make it.

**Author's Note:**

> I still have one more part to write in this AU. I guess I could have done it as one fic with chapters, but they each feel like their own story. Not sure when I'll get the next one down but I can promise you it will be much, much, more angsty-whumpy-actiony than this.


End file.
